 CHAPTER 34 Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter for the effort, Joe still found time for literary labours. The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power, money and power. Therefore she resolved to have not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than life, the dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that she might indulge in the luxury of charity had been for years Joe's most cherished castle in the air. The prize story experience had seemed to open away which might, after long travelling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau in Espana. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero she reposed a while after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the up-again-and-take-another spirit was as strong in Joe as in Jack, so she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the money-bags. She took to writing sensation-stories for in those dark ages even all-perfect America, red-rubbish. She told no one but concocted a thrilling tale and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the weekly volcano. She had never read Sartre Risartis, but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception Joe hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment, "'Excuse me, I was looking for the weekly volcano office. I wished to see Mr. Dashwood.'" Down with the highest pair of heels up rose the smokiest gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Joe produced her manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion. A friend of mine desired to offer a story, just as an experiment, would, like your opinion, be glad to write more if this suits. While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages. Not a first attempt, I take it, observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon, sure sign of a novice. No, sir, she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the Blarneystone banner. Oh, did she, and Mr. Dashwood gave Joe a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet, to the buttons on her boots. Well, you can leave it, if you like, weave more of this sort of thing on hand, than we know what to do with that present, but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week. Now, Joe did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettle'd or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen, that her little fiction of, my friend, was considered a good joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor as he closed the door, completed her discomforture. Half-resolving never to return she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and, in an hour or two, was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long for next week. When she went again Mr. Dashwood was alone, where at she rejoiced. Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first. We'll take this, editors never say I, if you don't object to a few alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will make it just the right length," he said, in a business-like tone. Joe hardly knew her own manuscript again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find that all the moral reflections, which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romance, had been stricken out. But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent. Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Joe had forgotten her friend, and had spoken as only an author could. People want to be amused, not preached at, you know, morals don't sell nowadays, which was not quite a correct statement, by the way. You think it would do with these alterations, then? Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up. Language good, and so on, was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply. What do you—that is, what compensation—began Joe not exactly knowing how to express herself? Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty-four things of this sort, pay when it comes out, returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said. Very well you can have it, said Joe, handing back the story with the satisfied air, for after the dollar a column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay. Shall I tell my friend you will take another, if she has one better than this, asked Joe, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success? Well, we'll look at it, can't promise to take it, tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend like to put on it, in a careless tone? None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to appear, and has no nom de plume, said Joe, blushing in spite of herself. Just as she likes, of course, the tale will be out next week. Will you call for the money or shall I send it? asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be. I'll call, good morning, sir. As she departed Mr. Dashwood put up his feet with the graceful remark, poor and proud as usual, but she'll do. Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Joe rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature, but thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking. Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and Banditi count Gypsy's nuns and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks on being offered higher wages had basely left him in the lurch. She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little horde she was making to take best to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories. Mr. Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word. She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well- kept secret. But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records, and lunatic asylums had to be ransacked for the purpose. Joe soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to find material for stories and bent on making them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in the street and characters good, bad and indifferent all about her. She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new and introduced herself to folly sin and misery as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finally, but unconsciously she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad society and imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us. She was beginning to feel rather than see this for much describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when Joe most needed hers she got it. I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read character or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the sun, Joe was discovering a live hero who interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Baer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters wherever she found them as good training for a writer. Joe took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him, a proceeding which would have much surprised him had he known it, for the worthy professor was very humble in his own conceit. Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Joe at first. He was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called fascinating, imposing or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was poor yet always appeared to be giving something away, a stranger yet everyone was his friend, no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy, plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Joe often watched him trying to discover the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow it sat with its head under its wing, and he turned only his sunny side to the world. There were lines about his forehead, but time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were neither cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words. His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full. His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other peoples. That's it, said Joe to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine goodwill toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify even a stout German teacher who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bear. Joe valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much honoured and esteemed for learning and integrity till a countryman came to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Joe learned it and liked it all the better because Mr. Bear had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was an honoured professor in Berlin, though only a poor language master in America, and his homely, hardworking life was much beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it. Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society which Joe would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl and kindly conferred many favours of this sort both on Joe and the professor. She took them with her one night to a select symposium held in honour of several celebrities. Joe went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had worshipped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and women after all. Imagine her dismay on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet whose line suggested an ethereal being fed on spirit fire and dew to behold him devouring his supper with an ardour which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a fallen idol she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum. The famous divine flirted openly with one of the Madame Distells of the age who looked daggers at another Corinne who was amably satirising her after out manoeuvring her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher who imbibed tea johnsonianly and appeared to slumber the locacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods gossiped about art while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy. The young musician who was charming the city like a second orpheus talked horses, and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of the party. Before the evening was half over Joe felt so completely disillusioned that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bayer soon joined her looking rather out of his element and presently several of the philosophers each mounted on his hobby came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles beyond Joe's comprehension but she enjoyed it though Kant and Hegel were unknown gods, the subjective and objective unintelligible terms, and the only thing evolved from her inner consciousness was a bad headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces and put together anew and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before. That religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the only god. Joe knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday. She looked round to see how the professor liked it and found him looking at her with the grimest expression she had ever seen him wear. He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom of speculative philosophy and kept her seat trying to find out what the wise gentleman intended to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs. Now Mr. Bear was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions, not because they were unsettled but too sincere and earnest to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Joe to several other young people attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would be led astray by the rockets to find when the display was over that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand. He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an opinion he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion with all the eloquence of truth, an eloquence which made his broken English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight for the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to his colors like a man. Somehow as he talked the world got right again to Joe, the old beliefs that had lasted so long seemed better than the new. God was not a blind force and immortality was not a pretty fable but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bear paused, out-talked but not one wit convinced, Joe wanted to clap her hands and thank him. She did neither, but she remembered the scene and gave the professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out, then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be, truth, reverence, and good will, then her friend Friedrich Bear was not only good, but great. This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the wish was sincerest she came near to losing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat, for one evening the professor came in to give Joe her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and he had forgotten to take off. It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down, thought Joe with a smile, as he said good evening and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein. She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came the lesson which was a lively one, for Joe was in a gay mood that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. Miss March, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Have you no respect for me that you go on so bad? How can I be respectful, sir, when you forget to take your hat off, said Joe? Lifting his hand to his head the absent-minded professor gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merry bas-ville. Ah, I see him now! It is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you if this lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him. But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes, because Mr. Bear caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it said with great disgust, I wish these papers did not come in the house, they are not for children to see nor young people to read. It is not well, and I have no patience with those who make this harm. Joe glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the volcano. It was not, however, and her panic subsided, as she remembered that even if it had been, and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man the professor saw a good deal more than people fancied. He knew that Joe wrote, and had met her down among the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it he asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He did not say to himself, it is none of my business I have no right to say anything, as many people would have done. He only remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the time the paper was turned and Joe's needle-threaded he was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely, yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boy's gunpowder to play with than this bad trash. All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for it I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories, said Joe, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits followed her pin. There is a demand for whiskey, but I think you and I do not care to sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would not feel that the living was honest. They have no right to put poison in the sugar-plum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing. Mr. Bear spoke warmly and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands. Joe sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney. I should like much to send all the rest after him, uttered the professor, coming back with a relieved air. Joe thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried. And taking up her books she said with a studious face, shall we go on, sir? I'll be very good and proper now. I shall hope so, was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words weekly volcano were printed in large type on her forehead. As soon as she went to her room she got out her papers and carefully re-read every one of her stories. Being a little short-sighted, Mr. Bear sometimes used eyeglasses, and Joe had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on the professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay. They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on for each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting myself and other people for the sake of money. I know it so, for I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it. And what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bear got hold of them? Joe turned hot at the Bear idea and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze. Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up with my gunpowder. She thought as she watched the demon of the Juro whisk away a little black cinder with fiery eyes. But when nothing remained of all her three months' work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Joe looked sober as she sat on the floor wondering what she ought to do about her wages. I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time, she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently. I almost wish I hadn't any conscience. It's so inconvenient. If I didn't care about doing right and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes that mother and father hadn't been so particular about such things. Ah, Joe, instead of wishing that, thank God that father and mother were particular, and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon in womanhood. Joe wrote no more sensational stories deciding that the money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah Moore, and then produced a tale which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon so intensely moral, was it? She had her doubts about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new style, as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbers costume of the last century. She sent the most didactic gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals didn't sell. Then she tried a child's story which she could easily have disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked to write for children, Joe could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls, because they did not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants, who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss from gilded gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Joe corked up her ink stand and said in a fit of very wholesome humility, I don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I try again, and, meantime, sweep mud in the street, if I can't do better, that's honest at least, which decision proved that her second tumble down the bean-stock had done her some good. While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked serious or a little sad, no one observed it but Professor Bear. He did it so quietly that Joe never knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between them he knew that she had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant. He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Joe was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life. It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirk till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bear's hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumbled it wildly when disturbed in mind. Going home, ah, you are happy that you have a home to go in, he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner while she held a little levy on that last evening. She was going early, so she bade them all good-bye overnight, and when his turn came she said warmly, Now, sir, you won't forget to come and see us if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my friend. Do you, shall I come? he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she did not see. Yes, come next month. Lori graduates then, and you'd enjoy commencement as something new. That is your best friend of whom you speak, he said, in an altered tone. Yes, my boy Teddy, I'm very proud of him, and should like you to see him. Joe looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bear's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Lori more than a best friend, and simply because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina on her knee, she didn't know what would have become of her. Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the professor did not see it. But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially, I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much success, and you all happiness, God bless you. And with that he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away. But after the boys were a bed he sat long before his fire, with the tired look on his face, and the haimwech or homesickness lying heavy at his heart. Once when he remembered Joe as she sat with the little child in her lap, and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not find. It is not for me, I must not hope it now, he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousaled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom used mirsham, and opened his plateau. He did his best, and did it manfully, but I don't think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine plateau were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home. Early as it was he was at the station next morning to see Joe off, and thanks to him she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face, smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy thought, well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having, and I'll try to keep him all my life. Chapter 35 Hardic Once ever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honour, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Philips, and the eloquence of a Domostinese, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather, of so proud, Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Joe and Beth, and all exalted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after triumphs. I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual, girls. Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said, girls, but he met Joe, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly, I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing hail the conquering hero comes on a Jew's harp. Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic. Oh, dearie me, I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do? Evening meditation and morning work somewhat elayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she sat forth at the point of time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at mags and a refreshing sniff and sip at the daisy and demi-john so further fortified her for the day to day, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away. Whereas the Jew's harp, Joe, cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance. I forgot it. And Joe took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like. She always used to take his arm on these occasions. Now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Joe said hastily, now you must have a good long holiday. I intend to. Something in his resolute tone made Joe look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, no, Teddy, please don't. I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Joe. We've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us, he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once. Say what you like, then. I'll listen, said Joe, with a desperate sort of patience. Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest and meant to have it out if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuosity, saying in a voice that we get choking now and then in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady. I've loved you, ever since I've known you, Joe. Couldn't help it. You've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you here, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer. I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand, big Aunt Joe, finding it a great deal harder than she expected. I know you did, but the girls are off so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it, returned Laurie, and trenching himself behind an undeniable fact. I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could. I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough. Here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his confounded throat. You, you are. You're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you. I'm so proud and fond of you. I don't know why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't. Really, truly, Joe? He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget. Really, truly, dear? They were in the grove now, close by the style, and when the last words fell reluctantly from Joe's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him, so he just laid his head down on a mossy post, and stood so still that Joe was frightened. Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry. I could kill myself if it would do any good. I wish you wouldn't take it so hard. I can't help it. You know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't, cried Joe, in elegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago. Go do sometimes, said a muffled voice from the post. I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it, was to decide to dancer. There was a long pause while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass wrestled in the wind. Presently, Joe said very soberly as she sat down on the step of the style, Laurie, I want to tell you something. He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, don't tell me that Joe, I can't bear it now. Tell what, she asked, wondering at his violence, that you love that old man. What old man, to manager Joe, thinking he must mean his grandfather. That devilish professor you were always writing about, if you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate. And he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes. Joe wanted to laugh, but reshamed herself and said warmly, for she too was getting excited with all this. Don't swear, Teddy, he isn't old or anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got next to you. Pray don't fly into a passion, I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my professor. I have the least idea of loving him or anybody else. But you will after a while, and then what will become of me? You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble. I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Joe. Never, never! With a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. What shall I do with him? sighed Joe, finding that emotions were more unmanageable than she expected. You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy. She said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love. Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Lori threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the style, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Joe's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy, while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had rung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake, how touching that was to be sure. I agree with mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable if we were still foolish as two. Joe paused a little over the last word, but Lori uttered it with a rapturous expression. Mary, no, we shouldn't. If you love me, Joe, I should be a perfect saint, where you could make me anything you like. No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash. Yes, we will, if we get the chance, uttered Lori rebelliously. Now, do be reasonable and take a sensible view of the case, implored Joe, almost at her wit's end. I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what you call a sensible view. It won't help me, and it only makes it harder. I don't believe you've got any heart. I wish I hadn't. There was a little quiver into his voice, and thinking it was a good omen, Lori turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear, as he said, in the Wiedelson tone that had never been so dangerously Wiedelson before. Don't disappoint us, dear. Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it. Your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do. Not until months afterward did Joe understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. I can't say yes truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by and by, and thank me for it. She began solemnly. I'll be hanged if I do, and Lori bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea. Yes, you will, persisted Joe. You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl who will adore you and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel. We can't help it even now, you see, and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid. Anything more? asked Lori, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst. Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man. I know better, broken Lori, you think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it. And the despairing lover casts his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical if his face had not been so tragic. Yes, I will live and die for him if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can, cried Joe, losing patience with poor Teddy. I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it, the better for both of us, so now. That speech was like gunpowder. Lori looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, you'll be sorry someday, Joe. Oh, where are you going, she cried, for his face frightened her. To the devil was the consoling answer. For a minute Joe's heart stood still as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery, to send a young man to a violent death, and Lori was not one of the weak sword who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race. Joe drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart. That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind that I shan't dare to see him, she said, adding as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing and buried under the leaves. Now I must go and prepare Mr. Lawrence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love that. Perhaps he may in time, but I began to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear, how can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's dreadful. Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Lawrence, told the hard story bravely through, then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter her approach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie and hoped she would change her mind. But he knew even better than Joe that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way for young impetuosities parting words to Joe disturbed him more than he would confess. When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual and harder still for the young one to listen to the praises of last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labour lost. He bore it as long as he could, then he went to his piano and began to play. The windows were open and Joe, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the Sonata Pathetique and played it as he never did before. That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry. Give us something gay or lad, said Mr. Lawrence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he had longed to show but knew not how. Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes and would have got through bravely if in a momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling, Joe dear, come in, I want you. Just what Laurie would long to say with a different meaning. As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark. I can't stand this, muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, grew up his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders and said, as gently as a woman, I know my boy, I know. No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, who told you? Joe herself. Then there's an end of it, and he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity. Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it, returned Mr. Lawrence with unusual mildness. You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps? I don't intend to run away from a girl, Joe can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like, interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone. Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go? Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me, and Laurie got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear. Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad as he planned, and forget it? I can't. But you've been a while to go, and I promised you should when you got through college. Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone. And Laurie walked fast through the room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see. I don't ask you to go alone. There is someone ready and glad to go with you. Anywhere in the world. Who, sir? Stopping to listen. Myself. Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily, I'm a selfish brute, but you know, grandfather, Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried out at once, said Mr. Lawrence, keeping hold of the young man, as so fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him. Well, sir, what is it? And Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice. There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you should attend to it. But I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything. I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at any time. But you hate travelling, sir. I can't ask it of you at your age, began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if you went at all. The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly decided to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly, bless your soul, I'm not super-annuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer. For travelling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair. A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily. I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to get about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I am friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them. Meantime, you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content. Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken, and the world a howling wilderness. But at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone, Just as you like, sir, it doesn't matter where I go, or what I do. It does to me remember that, my lad, I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie? Anything you like, sir? Good, thought the old gentleman. You don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm much mistaken. Being an energetic individual, Mr. Lawrence struck while the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirited enough to rebel, they were off. During the necessary time for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentlemen usually do in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress, and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Joe, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic face that haunted her, dreams by night, and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the poor dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble and come home happy. Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but pastored by with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity, like his love, was unalterable. When the parting came, he affected high spirits to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This deity did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude, then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Joe followed a minute after to wave her hand to him, if he looked around. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her, as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic. Oh, Joe, can't you? Daddy dear, I wish I could. That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said, it's all right, never mind, and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Joe did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again. End of chapter 35. Chapter 36 of Little Women. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rachel. Little Women by Louisa Mae Alcott. Chapter 36. Beth's Secret. When Joe came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily. But to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain, and a heavy weight fell on Joe's heart as she saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but little thinner than in the autumn. Yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Joe saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power. For Beth seemed happy. No one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Joe for a time forgot her fear. But when Laurie was gone and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and, as grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Joe took Beth down to the quiet place where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks. It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Joe too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away. They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Joe felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Joe's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet. One day Beth told her. Joe thought she was asleep. She lay so still, and putting down her book sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hand seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever, that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasures she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, Joe, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't. There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Joe did not cry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with the arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear. I've known it for a good while, and now I'm used to it. It isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is. Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and kept it to yourself so long, did you, asked Joe, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble. Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and that I was miserable, Joe. Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone? Joe's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye, to health, love, and life, and take up a cross so cheerfully. Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to, right? I wasn't sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmie was so anxious about Meg, and aim me away, and you so happy with Laurie, at least I thought so then. I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't, cried Joe, glad to say all the truth. Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Joe smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, then you didn't, dearie. I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of love-lornity all that while. Why, Joe, how could I when he was so fond of you, asked Beth as innocently as a child? I do love him, dearly. He's so good to me, how can I help it? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be sometime. Not through me, said Joe decidedly. Aim me is left for him, and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well. I want to, oh so much. I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Joe. When it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped. It shall be stopped. Your tide must not turn so soon. Nineteen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. All work can pray and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways. It can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me, cried poor Joe rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's. Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life and cheerfully wait for death. Like confiding child she asked no questions, but left everything to God in nature. Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they and they only could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Joe with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love from which our father never means us to be weaned, but through which he draws us closer to himself. She could not say, I'm glad to go, for life was very sweet to her. She could only saw about, I try to be willing, while she held fast to Joe as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together. By and by Beth said with recovered serenity, you'll tell them this when we go home? I think they will see it without words, sighed Joe, for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day. Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don't see it you will tell them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and mother, won't you Joe? If I can, but Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that it's a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true, said Joe, trying to speak cheerfully. Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, because I can't speak out except to my Joe. I only mean to say that I have a feeling it never was intended that I should live long. I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I do when I grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven. Joe could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged girl flew by with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sandbird came tripping over the beach, peeping softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a warm stone dressing its wet feathers quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny things seemed to offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed. Dear little bird, see, Joe, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the girls. They're not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and mother said they reminded her of me. Busy, Quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore and always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You're the gull, Joe, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea and happy all alone. Meg is the turtle dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl, she's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away. She's coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time, began Joe, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud, in a way quite unlike bashful Beth. Joe, dear, don't hope that any more. It won't too good. I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily. If you will help me. Joe leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth. She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for father and mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when Joe went down she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Joe went to comfort her without a word. End of Chapter 36. Chapter 37 of Little Women This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Daria Labudna Little Women by Louisa Mayalkott Chapter 37 New Impressions At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the promenade days on Gray. A charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day, the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Hottie English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free and easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here. Chatting over the news and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived, Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The ecupages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overwhelming the diminutive vehicles and little grooms on the perch behind. Along this walk on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly with his hands behind him and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American, a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes to shrug their shoulders and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl or lady in blue. Presently, he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin public or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies feet made him look up as one of the little carriages containing a single lady came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke, and waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her. Oh, Lori, is it really you? I thought you'd never come, cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands to the great scandalization of a French mama, who hastened her daughter's steps lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these mad English. I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am. How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying? Very well. Last night? At the Chevron. I called at your hotel, but you were all out. Oh, dear, I have so much to say and don't know where to begin. Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company, blows saving up for tonight. What happens then, Abal? A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course. Font will be charmed. Thank you. Where now? asked Lori, leaning back and folding his arms, proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white pony's backs afforded her infinite satisfaction. I'm going to the bankers first for letters and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there? Often years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it. Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin. Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him, so I go and come and we get on capitally. That's a sociable arrangement, said Amy, missing something in Lori's manner, though she couldn't tell what. Why, you see, he hates to travel and I hate to keep still, so we each suit ourselves and there's no trouble. I'm often with him and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it? He added, with a sniff of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city. The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the nails are delicious and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight. Now we should have to wait for that procession to pass. Let's go into the Church of St. John. While Lori listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue, chanting as they walked, Amy watched him and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed and she couldn't find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over he looked tired and spiritless, not sick nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and touched up her ponies as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglione Bridge and vanished in the Church. Que pensez-vous? she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad. That madmoselle has made good use of her time and the result is charming, for plenary, bowing with his hand on his heart in an admiring look. She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions and told her she was altogether jolly, with a hearty smile and an improving pat on the head. She didn't like the new tone, for though not blasé, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look. If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy, she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment in his comfort, trying, meantime, to seem quite easy and gay. At Avigdor's, she found the precious home letters and giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges where tea roses bloomed as freshly in the June. Beth is very poorly, mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say, stay, so I do, for I shall never have another chance like this, said Amy, looking sober over one page. I think you are right there, you could do nothing at home, and it is great comfort them to know that you are well and happy and enjoying so much, my dear. He drew a little nearer and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened. For the look, the act, the brotherly, my dear, seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently, she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Joe in her scribbling suit, but the bow rampantly erect upon her cap and dishewing from her mouth the words, genius burns. Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket to keep it from blowing away, and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him. This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you-witten letters in the afternoon, and a party at night, said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for, overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was. But her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish. Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue for dress, the fresh color for cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene. As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there, Do you remember the cathedral in the Corso, the fisherman dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Shubert's Tower just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea, which they say is Corsica? I remember, it's not much changed, he answered, without enthusiasm. What Joe would give for a sight of that famous speck, said Amy, feeling in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also. Yes, was a very good guess, was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which had greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight. Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while, said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk. But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the continent and been to Greece. So, after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening. It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately PRINKED that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as our boy, as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them, with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman. Tarleton and Tool were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique quaffos, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to part with such and the young, who satisfy our eyes with their calmliness and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities. I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home, said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with the most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a heebie-like knot at the back of her head. It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself. She used to say and advise to frizzle, puff or braid as the latest style commanded. Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasséed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself. My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on Aunt's mouchois gives an air to my whole dress. But I only had a classical nose, and now that she'd be perfectly happy, she said surveying herself with a critical eye, and a candle in each hand. In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away. She seldom ran, it did not suit her style, she thought. For, being tall, the stately and Juno-esque was more appropriate than the sport of what we can't. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Lori, and once arranged herself under the chandelier which had a good effect upon her hair. Then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a profiteous one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing. For Lori came in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window with her head half turned, in one hand gathering up for dress, this londered white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue. Good evening, Diana, said Lori with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her. Good evening, Apollo, she answered, smiling back at him, for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Mrs. Davis from the bottom of her heart. Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a saut bouquet, said Lori, handing her a delicate nose-gay, and a holder that she had long coveted as she daily pasted in Cardiglia's window. What kind you are, she explained gracefully. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have had something ready for you today. You're not as pretty as this, I'm afraid. Thank you, it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it, he added as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist. Please don't. I thought you liked that sort of thing. Not from you, doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better. I'm glad of it, he answered, with a look of relief. Then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home. The company assembled in the long Salamange that evening was such as one sees nowhere but on the continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles secured a few to add luster to their Christmas ball. A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count aged 18 devoted himself to the ladies who pronounced him fascinating dear, and a German serene something, having come for the supper alone, groaned vaguely about seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew, in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman who knew the emperor came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome life was looking English ditto, and a few plain but pecan-t French demoiselles. Likewise, the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who supported themselves gaily, while memas of all nations lined the walls, and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters. Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she took the stage that night, leaning on Lori's arm. She knew she looked well. She loved to dance. She felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bows them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her as it permitted them to see her dress and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of abandon, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Lori to know it. Therefore, the shock she received can better be imagined than described. When he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, do you care to dance? One usually does it of all. Her amazed look and quick answer caused Lori to repair his error as fast as possible. I mean, the first dance. May I have the honor? I can give you one if I put off the count. He dances divinely. You'll excuse me as you are an old friend, said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect and show Lori that she was not to be trifled with. Nice little boy, but rather a short pulse, port the steps of a daughter of the gods, divinely tall and most divinely fair, was all the satisfaction she got, however. The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, viewing all the while as if she could dance the tarantula with a relish. Lori resigned her to the nice little boy and went to do his duty to flow, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any sign of penitent. She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction with his strolled, instead of rushing up to claim her for the next, but Lori is Poca Radalla, but his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped it away with a count, she saw Lori sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief. That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then, when she came to her chaperone between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Lori's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced in spirit and grace, making the delights and pastime what it should be. She very naturally felt a studying her from this new point of view, but before the evening was half over, had decided that little Amy was going to make a very charming woman. It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it. Everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with davises, and many Joneses gambled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor, with a dashing French woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The serene tuton found the supper table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismaying the gasson by the ravages he committed. But the emperor's friend covered himself with glory, who danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to the hold, for though he carried weight, he danced like an India rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shone, his coat tails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow and beamed upon his filament like a French pickwick without glasses. Amy and her pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm, but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by, as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was desolated to leave so early, she was ready to rest and see how her frequent night had borne his punishment. It had been successful, for at three and twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a wake-up look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself with a satisfied smile, ah, I thought that would do him good. You look like Balzac's femme-punte par le mème, he said as he fanned her with one hand, and held her a coffee cup in the other. My rouge won't come off, and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek and showed him her white glove, the sober simplicity that made him laugh outright. What do you call this stuff, he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee? Illusion. Good name for it, it's very pretty, new thing, isn't it? It's as old as the hills, you've seen it on dozens of girls and you never found out that it was pretty till now. Stupid. I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake you see. None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous. Laurie sat bolt upright and neatly took her empty plate, feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having little Amy order him about, for she had lost her shyness now and felt an irresistible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection. Where did you learn all this sort of thing, he asked, with a quizzical look? As this sort of thing is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain, returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable? Well, the general air, the style, the self-possession, the illusion, you know, left Laurie breaking down and helping himself out of his laundry with the new word. Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered, foreign life polishes one in spite of oneself. I study as well as play, and as for this, with a little gesture toward her dress, my tool is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I'm used to making the most of my poor little things. Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but Laurie liked her the better for it and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner. But the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving. On the Shelf In France, the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when Vive la liberté becomes their motto. In America, as everyone knows, girls early assign a declaration of independence and enjoy their freedom with republic and zest. But the young matrons usually abdicate with the first air to the throne and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married. Not being a belle, or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience the suffocation till her babies were a year old, for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever. As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attention he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing, with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be restored. The three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time. The house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook who took life easy, kept him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mama. If he gave Gailian at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a hush there just to sleep after worrying all day. If he proposed a little amusement at home, no, it would disturb the babies. If he hinted at a lecturer or concert, he was answered with a reproachful look and had decided, leave my children for pleasure, never. His sleep was broken by infant whales, and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his paper of an evening, Demise Collick got into the shipping list, and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooks was only interested in domestic news. The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual hushing made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Bay Needham. He bore it very patiently for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do, tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style. John would have preferred his own fireside, if it had not been so lonely, but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and enjoyed his neighbor's society. Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time, instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by and by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving Mama time to rest, she began to miss John and find her work-basket doll company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing-gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in Maine. She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them, want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women that teapot makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle. Yes, she would say, looking in the glass. I'm getting old and ugly. John don't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his fated wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no encumbrances. Well, the babies love me. They don't care if I am thin and pale, and haven't time to crimp my hair. They are my comfort, and someday John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them. Won't he, my precious? To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coup, or demean with a crowd, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being, but the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was. For Meg's dripping spirits had not escaped her observation. I wouldn't tell anyone except you, mother, but I really do need advice, for if John goes on so much longer I might as well be widowed, replied Mrs. Brook, drying her tears on Daisy's bib with an injured air. Goes on how, my dear, asked her mother anxiously. He's away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is continually going over to the Scots. Isn't fear that I should have the hardest work and never any amusement? Men are very selfish, even the best of them. So are women. Don't blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself. But it can't be right for him to neglect me. Don't you neglect him? Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part. So I do as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours, Meg. I don't see how. Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure time? No, but I can't do it now, and two babies to tend. I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as mother who sympathizes? Indeed I will. Speak to me as if I was little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever, since these babies looked to me for everything. Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever. You have only made the mistake that most young wives make, forgotten your duty to your husband and your love for your children, a very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, for one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways. For children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do with support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken. Feeling sure would come right in time. I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous, and I would insult him by such an idea. He don't see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him without words. Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for his little home. But it isn't home without you, and you are always in the nursery. Aren't I to be there? Not all the time. Too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies. Don't neglect husband for children. Don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has his part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all. You really think so, Mother? I know it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Joe were little, I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as I could, but Joe was too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, but I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together always. It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and children when you have been to yours. Show me how, I'll do anything you say. You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi. For the boy needs training, and it's not too soon to begin. Then I do what I have often proposed. Let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise. Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John will find his wife again. Go out more. Keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine maker of the family, and if you get dismal, there is no fair weather. Then I try to take an interest in whatever John likes. Talk with him. Let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself up in a band box because you are a woman that understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours. John is so sensible. I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and things. I don't believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it and see if you ever find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers. I will. Poor John. I'm afraid I have neglected him, sadly, but I thought I was bright and he never said anything. He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather for law and I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart, than the very time when they ought to be most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off unless care is taken to preserve it, and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear, goodbye. Think over mother's preachment, act upon it, if it seems good, and God bless you all. Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course, the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mama was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For to mean heredit a trifle with the sire's firmness of character, we will call it obstinacy, and when he made up his little mind to have what were to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mama thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to wrestle with par par, he always got the worst of it. Yet, like the Englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father, whose grave, no, no, was more impressive than all the mother's love-pats. A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John. So she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately, Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sung and rocked, told stories, and tried every sleep-provoking while she could devise, but all in vain. The big eyes wouldn't shut, and long after Daisy had gone to Biolo, like the chubby little bunch of good-nature she was. Naughty Demi lay staring at the light with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance. Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mama runs down and gives poor Papa his tea? Asked Meg as the hall door softly closed, and the well-known step went tiptoeing into the dining-room. Me has tea, said Demi, preparing to join in the rebel. No, but I'll save you some little cakes for breakfast, if you'll go bye-bye like Daisy. Will you love me? Yes! And Demi shut his eyes tight as if to catch sleep, and hurry the desired day. Taking advantage of the prepituous moment, Meg slipped away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair, which was his special admiration. He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise, Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight! Do you expect company? Only you, dear. Is it a birthday, anniversary or anything? No, I'm tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so I should nigh when I have the time. I do it out of respect to you, my dear, subtle fashion, John. Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brook, laughed Meg looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot. Well, it's altogether delightful and like old times. This tastes right. I drink your health, dear. And John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of a very short duration, however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently, Obedoi, me's tummin'. It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is downstairs, getting his death a cold, pattering over that canvas, said Meg, answering the call. Mornin' now, announced to me in a joyful tone, as he entered with his long night down gracefully festooned over his arm, and every curl bobbing gaily, as he pranced about the table, eyeing the cakeies, or the loving glances. No, it isn't mourning yet. You must go to bed and not trouble pour me ma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it. Me loves par par, said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal me, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head and said to Meg, if you told him to stay up there and go to sleep alone, they can do it, or he will never learn to mind you. Yes, of course. Come to me, and Meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot, who hopped beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery. Nor was he disappointed, for that short-sighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till mourning. Yes, said to me, the purgered, blissfully sucking his sugar and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful. Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, more sugar, murmur. Now this won't do, said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner, which I'll never know any peace till that child learns to order bed properly. You've made a sleeve of yourself long enough, give him one lesson, and then there will be an end to it. Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg. He won't stay there. He never does unless I sit by him. I'll manage him. To me go upstairs and get into your bed, as my mom bids you. Sant! replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted cakey, and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity. You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don't go yourself. Go away. You don't love Papa, said to me, retired to his mother's skirts for protection. But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy with a be gentle with him, John, which struck the culprit with dismay, for when Momon deserted him, then the judgment day was at hand. A raft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand that detested bed, Bordene could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out at the other, and made for the door, only to be anonymously caught up by the tale of his little toga, and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post, which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story. Even the light was put out, and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the big dark, which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally from Omar, as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his tender, fond woman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail, which succeeded the passionate roar, went to Meg's heart, and she ran up to say, beseeching me, Let me stay with him, he'll be good now, John. No, my dear, I've told him you must go to sleep as you bid him, and he must, if I stay here all night. He'll cry himself sick, pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy. No, he won't. He's so tired he'll soon drop off. Then the matter is settled, for he will understand that he's got to mind. Don't interfere, I'll manage him. He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness. He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Blow down, my dear, and leave the boy to me. When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted her facility. Please let me kiss him once, John. Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mama, and let her go and rest, for she's very tired with taking care of you all day. Meg always insisted upon it, that the kiss won the victory. For, after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed, whether he had wriggled in his anguish of mind. Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him up and then go and set Meg's heart at rest. Thought John, creeping up to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious air asleep. But he wasn't. For the moment his father peeked at him, Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying, with a penitent hiccup, Me's dude now! Sitting on the stairs outside, Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of possible accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual spready gladitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm, and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that just as was tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser baby. So held, John had waited with womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his little son than with his whole day's work. As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies, he does know how to manage them, and will be a great help for Demi is getting too much for me. When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was gravely surprised to find Meg placently trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness, and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, well I really don't see what we are coming to. John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of tulle and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to awaken. She's trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like millinery for hers. That's only fair. Thought John the Just, adding it loud. That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap? My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to concert in theater bonnet! I beg your pardon. It was so very small, I naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep them on? These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so, and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible. It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, where looks young and happy again, and John kissed the smiling face to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin. I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you please? Of course I will, with all my heart, and anywhere else you like. You've been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it of all things. We'll put it into your head, little mother. Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less care, so Hannah had to help me with the children, and I have to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. I saw me an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be if I can. You don't object, I hope. Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule for accurate steadfast John brought order and obedience into babydom, while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew home-like again, and John had no wish to leave it unless he took Meg with him. The Scots came to the Brooks now, and everyone found the little house a cheerful place full of happiness, content, and family love. Even gay Sally Mo fat liked to go there. It is always so quiet and pleasant here it does me good, Meg. She used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm that she might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her. This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be lead, safe from the restless to fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers and the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the house-band, and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it, not as a queen, but a wise wife and mother. End of Chapter 38. Recording by Daria Lobutna